I see myself living in a very small space one day. Hopefully it won’t be a padded cell.
I don’t like to think about the circumstances that will lead to that (empty nest and all that) but I’m sure that I will embrace it once it happens. I kid myself into believing that the boys will take over the house with their families and I will be a few blocks away in a nice Mapleton bungalow.
Boulder’s downtown is dotted with tiny houses, maybe 700 square feet total, like little jewel boxes. I fantasize about living in one with only the most precious and loved of my belongings, but mostly just space and light. And cats. Lots of cats.
It was like that when Zeb and I first moved in together. I lived in the third floor apartment that he remodeled just for me (I have been demanding and high-maintenance from the start) while he (and more importantly, his stuff) lived on the first floor. We spent all our time together but our stuff never mingled. It was amazing. We could be together without ever having to compromise. We had more cats then, too.
Can you imagine how much happier everyone would be if they could rule their own domains? I daydream about those days but I wouldn’t give up my life right now for it. Meanwhile, the apartment has been converted into rental while we do the family thing.
Time to cut the crap.
Sixteen items from the sun room and basement of doom.
When I was a kid I found Peanuts to be inscrutable. After seeing the documentary on Charles Schultz, I now know how crushingly depressed and checked-out from his family life he was. Which makes this book kind of funny.
Perhaps the most inadvertently pathetic inscription in a book about friendship ever.
This was written inside and it appears that whoever owned this book got two-timed. “Watch the quiet ones. Their (sic) the ones that might be thinking.” Shit was getting serious in the 1st grade. Was this book mine? Did I write this last year?
Two copies of Where The Wild Things Are (in addition to the copies the boys read) Woodframe Houses (I have to sneak this one into the pile, Zeb is strangely attached to this type of book) and some Star Wars brain damage. I’m donating them if you don’t want them.
Two books that will depress, outrage and entertain you. DONATE.
Paper streamers. I don’t know why I have these. I’m not a streamer type of person. I’m the satin ribbon type, if you must know. FREE.
Easter BS. I just realized that I will be out of town this Easter so I’m giving this stuff to Harmy. She loves throwing holiday parties. She digs the bowls of candy, the decorated cupcakes, the specific activities, and THANK GOD! I have to stay in good with her so my kids can enjoy the fruits of her labor.
More plastic eggs for plastic toys that will last maybe a day before they get trashed. Or candy, which Zeb will immediately confiscate on account of it being crappy. Don’t you wish you were my kids? Aren’t you glad you aren’t?
Fake grass for Easter Baskets from a fake, um, superhero? Myth? What is the category for imaginary intruders that leave gifts? I am no good at being the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, Santa and the like. I like to think it is because I am so honest. HAHAHAHAHA.
It’s a ball with glitter and snowflakes but somehow it got warped. Tell me it doesn’t make you immediately think of the Today Sponge.
See what I mean? TRASH.
One water wing and some 3-D glasses. TRASH.
And a basket. I’ve declared a war on bins so I’m throwing it out.
Featured image courtesy of http://www.stephentaylor.ca/2012/08/barbara-falby-is-worried/